


Pretty little muse, won't you be my lover?

by Blushing_starker



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Aged-Up Peter Parker, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Artist Steve Rogers, College Student Peter Parker, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, M/M, Mechanic Tony Stark, Mildly Dubious Consent, Model Peter Parker, Morally Ambiguous Peter, Multi, Muse Peter Parker, Mutual Pining, Pet Names, Pining, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Serial Killer Steve Rogers, Serial Killer Tony Stark, christ so much pining, explicit tag is for a very specific paragraph of violence, im sure there'll be sex but we're not there yet, peter has a mindset and wardrobe similar to arvin russel in the devil all the time, stony will be dark here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26630188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blushing_starker/pseuds/Blushing_starker
Summary: They don't expect to find their other half in a small paper mill town in the exact middle of nowhere, don't expect him to be a college student with slow smiles, sharp wit and a howling rage that scares the shit out of the local scumbags. The kid shows a hidden side of himself and the duo knows that Peter's meant to be theirs. Whether it be as a muse and therefore a victim, or as a broken lover.They’ve never, Steve's never, he’s never viewed a person as both a prospective muse and a fellow companion. But it makes sense why he’d consider it, if this is the candidate.The kid is the epitome of perfection, the boy mothers want their daughters to marry, the son fathers yearn for, the muse artists fight over, the lover everyone wants to warm their bed. And here he is, gently curling hands so much smaller than his own around Tony’s wrist in an attempt to bring a stranger some comfort.“I don’t know about a kiss, but a name will definitely do, sir.” Tony blinks. Is that, no, it can’t be cheek, but it sure as hell isn’t meek. They’re ruined, absolutely ruined. From that tone, shy confidence, cautious teasing, it seems they’ve finally found their dream lover.
Relationships: Happy Hogan/May Parker (Spider-Man), Pepper Potts/Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 62





	Pretty little muse, won't you be my lover?

**Author's Note:**

> Seeing as how this was inspired by a moodboard I made and then it spiraled into something more, I am unsure of how long this will be. Updates might be (will be) the farthest thing from constant due to school, but I'll try to wrangle my brain into writing and establishing a routine. But! I am 100% positive this won't be the type of fic I'll be able to let go of so there will definitely be more chapters, I promise.
> 
> I'm blushing-starker over at tumblr, come say hi! I, unlike Steve and Tony, don't bite.

It doesn’t start because they sought it out, it’s not like before. The last time the two of them went in search of a pretty little thing to warm their bed (and their bodies. Tony had tackled Steve to the floor when the blood covered the blonde everywhere, white shirt irreversibly damaged no matter how much his boyfriend tried to will it to life with the same bleach used to scrub at the basement tiles.) was five years ago. Mistakes were made, impatience and lack of restraint ruining their chance of remaining in the city when a neighbor heard whimpers coming from the couple’s side of the apartment. After snatching the emergency bags and getting the hell out of range from the police, they’d both decided to lay low as long as possible in the next town. They could go through the withdrawal together, survive and learn from the past so it’d be less likely they were thrown in jail.

It takes the two of them hours to drive to a sleepy paper mill town, but the tense journey is worth it. The place seems to be stuck in the sixties, with its solitary cinema still proclaiming an old Bond movie was showing, muted colors splashed on all the first story buildings and mom and pop businesses spread out everywhere. There was a lone tower rising higher than any other, plaque on its front immediately drawing Steve in.

“They’ve got a newspaper, Tony. And a library. In the same place.” He sighs, thumps his head against the wheel and resigns himself to the fact that Steve’s never gonna want to leave the town as long as he can inhale books in a sunny corner. Tony’s about to warn him that no, he can’t live on literature, that he’d have to take breaks and get a coffee every few hours while _he_ went job hunting when a hand tugs on the back of his head and Tony’s half way out the seat before Steve relents.

“Rogers, what the fuck- “

“You could be a mechanic!” Steve looks like an excited Labrador, pointing at a small flyer stapled to a sputtering street lamp. His eyesight has gotten worse with age, but Tony can decipher the bold lettering asking for help down at Sixth Street. Slowly, he starts driving down the road to try and find the place. It takes them two seconds to see the squat and shabby shop. There’s only a duo of garage doors out front, the sign is rusting and it probably can’t hold much machinery hostage. He hesitates, doesn’t want to get excited at the prospect of working on cars again, on taking apart engines and building them back up into something better, something worth appreciating, after so many years stuck as the CEO of Stark Tech Industries.

(He gets the same rush from fixing an engine when he disassembles a person. It’s an ache being filled, a chance to see that the Stark name didn’t _just_ bring destruction and chaos. It’s a controlled explosion, a forest fire that ravages the old and paves the path for new opportunities of beauty. Steve loves watching Tony become laser focused on the inner workings of a machine, adores the look that only shows up when he manages to tinker and find the source of the problem. The blonde has a thousand pages dedicated to Tony, charcoal sketches depicting the exact moment something clicks and a solution is finally found. The majority of the time, that pride means a rearranged lung gushing black liquids, broken bones piercing soft tissue, muscles stretched beyond functionality, ligaments twisted around peeling skin, pink shades lingering around Tony’s excavating fingers, dancing bare feet and, on a few memorable occasions, his face. Steve likes the bittersweet taste the most when it comes from his lover’s lips.)

A soft wind blows and a square of zinc covering a Steve sized hole in the brick wall clatters. Something resembling a raccoon scuttles inside before long.

“It’s perfect for you, Tony.” He hates that Steve’s right. His body relaxes, having gone tense at the idea that maybe he’d been silly in thinking it was a good match, this ramshackle and the Stark heir. If his boyfriend genuinely believed it wouldn’t work out, Steve would tell him. Gently but firmly. Tony loosens his tight grip on the wheel and slowly moves one hand to rest between the two of them. He waits, heart stopping like it always does no matter how many times Tony reminds himself that the man next to him won’t fail him. It takes less than a breath for Steve to touch him, join their fingers in a weave that had been the only lifeline during horrible moments. 

The sun begins to rise over that dreaming town, pale light persistently chasing away the shadows lurking behind stores, the demons lusting for sinners, the ghouls haunting troubled souls, and the monsters that plague their past. If the light could keep these creatures away day after day, maybe it could help them forget the ache that tries to crawl outwards in search of blood every few months.

They inhale, clutch the other’s hand and prepare for a new era.

“Yeah, it’s perfect.”

Time has worn them down slightly, erased Steve’s soft curves and whisked away the innocence. The beast that devours all of existence made Tony’s days of sprinting without complaint a mere dream and his hair is starting to show hints of a color bright enough Steve begins saying his lover will turn into a snow hare. Still, people never stop staring at them furtively when they catch sight of the pair around town. They might be startled, unsettled at first, but that fades when the town notices how _beautiful_ the newcomers are.

Most of the residents are embarrassed when Steve sees them staring on the rare instances he actually looks up from his perch on the library window seat or is hungry enough to move away from drawing the latest newspaper comic strip. He, too, gets a bit flushed, unaccustomed to someone other than Tony paying him such intense attention, but the artist always smiles back, even goes as far as walking over if it’s a little kid doing the glancing. Usually, the parent apologizes and then stutters when this mountain of a man kneels at their feet to happily introduce himself to the shy kid that recognizes the town’s only worthwhile columnist. (The kids are biased, of course, since Steve’s articles are exclusively book recommendations dedicated to the youngest generation.)

When they slowly stop hiding behind the adult’s trembling legs (Steve on his knees can affect _anyone_ ), they mumble their name and then launch into a monologue because “Well, that’s a beautiful name. Much better than plain old Steve.”

Steve draws in so many kids (and their parents) for the Read Aloud sessions after school that the library has to invest in more couches just so a fifth of the people can properly sit and not knock over book shelves. Tony had howled with laughter the first time all his coworkers sprinted to the library, kids tossed over grease stained shoulders or tucked under an arm, in order to get good seats. It means his boss, an eccentric Mr Lee, isn’t around to ask him dating tips for his grandson.

Tony, though, his response is much more… daring than Steve’s. Best case scenario, he smirks, lips uncurling gradually to make an obscene show, tongue peeking out and teeth glinting. The teenagers that glance over identify the manic glint in his eyes; it was identical to their own so they keep distance between the man that brought their parents’ old cars back to life, incline their heads as a greeting and otherwise ignore him. Sure, it’s a bit hard with Tony being as handsome as the bad boys the young blood used to read about under darkness and sweaty bedcovers, but they manage to survive. They’re infinitely better off than the rich widows and unhappy couples. (Which just happen to be their parents.)

Those he eats up alive without remorse, eyes heady and as devoid of light as a black hole, mouth caressing a straw so explicitly everyone in the coffee shop feels the temperature rise fifteen degrees. He never touches his admirers, though. There are plenty of offers, for him and Steve and for him _and_ Steve, but they’re never taken up. The two of them are perfectly happy together, as in love as the day they finally kissed without it being a competition. Besides, there isn’t much to play with around these parts. A few people catch their eye, lanky young men that hang around the park behind the local high school smoking, quiet women reading besides Steve during lunch time, pencils tucked behind their ears, men roughly their age laughing at the weekly town barbecue, beers in hand and smiles easy. It’d be easy to find a bedfellow, even easier to get their next muse if they planned it thoroughly. It’d be easy. And boring.

The city was exciting because of the thrill of risking it all, of stray eyes locking onto them and starting a stampede of indignant prey thirsting for their blood. In a small town, the risk isn’t as worthwhile; the possibility of being seen too real to actually give the two of them a high. Exposure here would mean death, they’re not about to taunt the endless sleep for someone that won’t leave them shaking afterwards. And sex, intercourse with a third? There’s no real need for that, not when they have each other.

Until they see one Peter Parker and it all comes rushing back; the ache for controlled destruction and for something they’ve only felt with their lover.

Half a decade later

Tony snarls, clutches at the wrench desperately, but it’s a futile gesture when it slips down the second burning metal kisses his skin. There’s a sharp hiss the shop’s best employer distantly realizes as being caused by his lurching body and god, he misses his youth. At least then his hands could fit between all the gears and narrow spaces, at least Tony still had some control over how he reacted to pain when said pain is fresh. The burn doesn’t look too bad, actually. And then he moves the shaking hand towards the light. Yeah, Stevie’s gonna kill Stan for not having more people around to help Tony out with the car.

He hopes the elderly man doesn’t decide to kick him out afterwards; he actually likes working here. It’d be embarrassing, really, fired after five years of being employee of the month. Christ, here he is with what’s apparently a second degree burn and all that’s coursing through his head is keeping his job. Oh, how his father would react. It’s fine though, Tony, just fine. The Stark Industries stock belonging to the heir are more than enough for them to not ever worry about something as trivial as money.

But, well. He _really_ likes it in the shop, loves the chipped paint, the smell of gasoline that can never be masked by Febreze no matter how many cans Stan sprays, the rusty machinery, the worn down materials, how the ceiling fan always creaks on its third turn, the other mechanics, the rattling fridge on the corner, he loves it all. Hell, he’s even become fond of the raccoon that visits whenever it’s time to eat. (His name is Rocket because that’s his favorite chocolate and obviously Tony gets a _picky_ raccoon.) Tony really hopes Steve doesn’t fight and accidentally cause his unemployment.

The wind, cold like his father’s gaze, picks up, curls around his burn and he’s three seconds away from screaming bloody fucking murder, mouth at the moment too preoccupied with muttering dammit dammit dammit all over again, nerves fucking _alight_ and oh shit, will he be able to move it, when someone comes to his side and ever so gently presses a rag with ice over the area that’s currently making Tony wish for any type of relief. Fifteen years of self-defense classes down the drain; he doesn’t even flinch away from the stranger glued to his side, too ecstatic and overwhelmed when the ice melts. He slumps, whole body leaning on his savior. A hand flutters to his back, safely holds Tony upright even with the limb being substantially smaller than the average man’s.

“I will literally French kiss you right now; I would’ve stood here uselessly with a fucked up hand if it weren’t for,” he sighs, turns around to properly piece together glimpses of denim and brown hair, freezes when the whole picture is revealed, “you.”

That last syllable, he’s slightly proud to say, comes out wrapped up in his deepest, sexiest whisper ever. The angel before him snaps his gaze towards Tony, eyes going wide and cheeks flushing the prettiest pink Tony’s seen. Although, no, that’s not true, is it? He’s seen that before, but where? The sunlight shifts and it comes to him, crashes into him, really, with the force of a lightning bolt. This kid flushes the same shade of pink that decorates Tony’s hands after a session with a muse.

He doesn’t stop staring, can’t look away, mind unable to halt the plans already coming to life, the escape routes and the manipulation tactics, the proper way of courting, of wining and dining, and they’ve never, he’s never viewed a person as both a prospective muse _and_ a fellow companion. But it makes sense why he’d consider it, if this is the candidate.

The boy, just shy of twenty or twenty-one at most, has smooth skin the color of sand from his hometown beach (Tony’s always been smug about being an Italian), soft brown curls that frame a fair face showcasing rosy cupid’s bow lips, Bambi eyes peering out under long lashes with a shade similar to distilled whiskey and a sharp, almost dainty looking nose. There’s a teensy bit of baby fat around his cheeks and Tony’s glad; he doesn’t particularly like the ones that are too gaunt. A look down and oh yes, the boy is delectable. He could probably carry him for hours and Steve was definitely capable of walking round the house with the angel in one hand.

Still, Tony can see muscle where it peeks out from rolled up jacket sleeves and those long legs must have run track, judging from how denim clings to the well-defined slope of slim calves. A tantalizing neck as long as a swan’s leads Tony’s eyes to a collar bone he just knows Steve will love to paint purple with his teeth and brush.

The kid is the epitome of perfection, the boy mothers want their daughters to marry, the son fathers yearn for, the muse artists fight over, the lover everyone wants to warm their bed. And here he is, gently curling hands so much smaller than his own around Tony’s wrist in an attempt to bring a stranger some comfort. 

“I don’t know about a kiss, but a name will definitely do, sir.” Tony blinks. Is that, no, it can’t be cheek, but it sure as hell isn’t _meek._ They’re ruined, absolutely ruined. All their time together, Steve and Tony wanted a partner that was more prone to acting out wild plans than the blonde and less, well, crazy than the Stark heir. From that tone, shy confidence, cautious teasing, it seems they’ve finally found their dream lover.


End file.
